That's Just Some People Talking
by letterstonorah
Summary: This is a story about how Spock and Uhura overcome the hurts of the past so they might return to each other.
1. Chapter 1

**After the genocide and destruction of his home planet, Spock goes on the _Vuhlkansu_ equivalent of a bender, dabbling with the V'tosh ka'tur (Vulcans without logic). As he alienates those he holds most dear, there are grave consequences. Jumps around in time a bit, flashing back to Spuhura origins. In my 'verse, Amanda lives; I'm sorry (not sorry). This is a story about how Spock and Uhura overcome the hurts of the past so they might return to each other. **

**I've been working on this story for seemingly ever. I shall update every three days, if that is acceptable, as I am far enough head that I feel confident with that pace. As this is only the prologue, it's rather short. Expect most chapters to be between 2k and 6k words. Beware angst. There are allusions to violence of a sexual nature throughout, but no portrayals. Minor suicidal ideation. For more extensive, spoilery warnings, please feel free to message me. **

**Your feedback is always so very cherished : ) **

**Prologue**

Nyota presses the comm to her ear, taps her foot impatiently as she waits for the call to connect. The solar-charged battery is moments away from dying, and a red light blinks in warning. It'd been reckless, verging on insane, to come to this area without viable communication—something Spock might've done. What is it she'd told him, only days before he'd left her?_ I can't keep worrying myself sick, literally sick, with nausea and headaches. Baby, it's like y__ou've got a death wish_.

That was almost a year ago. Now, Nyota wonders if she doesn't have a death wish herself. She'd come here, hadn't she? Alone? With a dying comm unit and not so much as a can of mace?

Wet, cold, only half-dressed, she shivers violently. The storefront awning affords rudimentary shelter, but it's too little, too late. Her bare feet tingle with encroaching numbness. Her heart beats more quickly than is strictly healthy.

The rain has, at least, washed away the visible blood. A rather pathetic silver lining, but a silver lining nonetheless. She'll take it.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," she says into her comm, because she knows that he's here, back on Earth. She can feel him. His presence in her mind is hot and angry, muted and prickly. "Fucking pick up," she says, louder than intended. Save for the storm and her own hiccupping breaths, the street is silent. Still, she presses herself back into the wall of the building, hopes to make herself less visible should someone join her on the deserted roadway.

Eventually, the call goes to his voicemail.

"You have reached Spock. I am not available. If you wish it, record a message."

After the beep, she says—nothing, hangs up after only a few seconds of ridiculous panting. She's not surprised he didn't answer. When she'd needed him most, he had ignored her communiques. There was no reason for tonight to be any different. She shoves the comm back into the pocket of her ripped skirt, then feels it buzzing weakly. Wavering for only a moment, she picks up.

"Spock?" she asks, cringing at how pathetic her voice sounds.

"Lieutenant Uhura," he says, using her formal rank and address. "It is 3:23AM, hardly an appropriate time for satellite conversation. May I inquire as to how you came to be in possession of this phone number?"

The wind off the Bay snaps over Nyota's exposed chest, legs, arms. Any thoughts of purposefully disconnecting the call die swiftly. Now is not the time for pride.

"Lieutenant?" he asks, and Nyota thinks his tone sounds almost, a tad bit, fractionally, infinitesimally, marginally, worried. "_Tra wi ha?_"

It's not the first time Nyota's noted his tendency to switch to his native tongue suddenly, mid-talk.

"_I'm still here_," she answers, then thinking better of it, switches back to Standard, not wishing to draw attention to herself. "Look, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm sure it's an inconvenience. I couldn't think of anyone else who'd be awake," she says, though that's not remotely true. She should've called Gaila, or Kirk, even. She doesn't linger on why she didn't.

"_You are unsafe_?" he asks, and at the sound of him using 'tu', the intimate form of _you_, rather than the more appropriate 'du,' she swallows. A note of uncertainty creeps into the syllables of that last word, too, '_ri-shar_,' _unsafe, _ but it's hard to determine for certain over the phone. "_I can hear that your respiration is laboured and uneven, suggesting a state of physiological agitation._" Nyota can't tell if he's amused, bothered, indifferent, but after a moment, he adds, "_Our previously disharmonious relationship has no bearing on my ability to provide effective help. Elaborate on your condition so that I may do just that._"

Nyota hugs one arm around her chest as she struggles to find the right words to convey her situation. "It's raining. I'm soaked," she says.

The response hardly qualifies as an elaboration, but it's all Nyota can manage. Spock is more intuitive than he'd ever admit, and she hopes he understands that which she cannot speak. Suppressing another shiver, she leans against the window of the closed bookshop.

"_Lieutenant, you are located near a twenty-four hour coffee shop, approximately two and a half blocks west of where you currently stand. It is called Dedalus._"

"Yeah, yeah, I think I know it," she says, confused. Her head is still throbbing, and she's not sure she heard him correctly.

"_Go there. I will join you shortly and provide any assistance that I can_," he says.

Nyota inhales sharply but answers him with only minor hesitation. "I can't."

"_You are incapacitated?_"

Legs weak and wobbling, Nyota ventures a step. She could walk, she supposes, if pressed. "No, it's just—Spock—I'm not very decent at the moment." Her eyes fall shut.

There is a pause, no more than two seconds, before he speaks again. "_I expect to arrive to you in twenty-one minutes. I regret that I cannot travel to you any more expeditiously, nor can I stay on the line with you during my transport._"

"It's all right," she says, infusing the words with as much dignity as she can.

"Nyota?"

"Yeah?"

"_I—will see you soon." _

Nyota doesn't how he'd located her. Instead, she sags down to the concrete, clutches her knees to her chest, too exhausted to resist the lure of unconsciousness.

.


	2. If Music be the Food of Love

We got a brief glimpse into where Spock and Nyota will end up. Now we'll see how they started out.

Thank you so much for your reviews. I aim to respond to each one personally.

I will continue to cherish every piece of feedback.

**II.**

** If Music be the Food of Love**

Nyota Uhura's rendition of _Partita in D minor _is without error_, _a most impressive feat considering the difficulty of the piece. She is an exceptional violinist. Her hand moves deftly over the fingerboard. Her passion is evident but controlled. All in all, it is a technically proficient but artistically accomplished interpretation of Spock's favourite Johann Sebastian Bach composition.

Father, too, is moved. A shiver of feeling nudges Spock's consciousness through their tremulous familial link. The sensation is overwhelming in its intensity, but disappears after only a few moments, Sarek pulling away from their bond as if 'caught with his hand in the cookie jar'—a curious but oddly apt Standard idiom.

Mother has her hand clutched over Spock's, and she transfers her excitement telepathically. Spock is unsure if his increased heart rate is a result of the bombardment of emotion coming from Amanda, or if it is a reaction to Ms. Uhura herself.

_Grand Curie_ is a small but majestic theatre, built as an homage to the Terran concert halls of old: pre-Medieval European architecture on the exterior, finely etched wood and plaster on the interior, lit softly with incandescent lights. Compared to the magnificence of the theatre, Uhura appears cartoonishly tiny on the stage, fragile and vulnerable as her skinny arms pull the bow back and forth with vigour. Her dress, pale gold, shimmers under the stage lights, complementing the bare skin of her shoulders and chest. The garment appears to lack sleeves. Illogical, but somehow not unpleasing.

The piece reaches its conclusion, and the packed hall claps wildly. Amanda is the first to stand, pulling Spock up in the process. He's never understood clapping, and so he does not take part, but he'll make sure to convey his appreciation to the musician later, in person.

Captain Pike's assistance that he attend this function had been warranted, indeed. The concert turned out to be a stimulating as well as gratifying sensory experience, and Spock is pleased that the event coincided with his parents' visit to Earth.

Soon, everyone is standing. The volume of the theatre roars to an impressive peak.

"_Smacking one's hands together and shouting to the point of hoarseness is one of many Terran customs to which I have never properly adapted," _says Sarek. His use of Vulcan is not surprising. He is an ambassador, and they are surrounded by Standard-speaking diplomats.

"_I, too, find the practise flummoxing," _returns Spock.

"_Yes, we are alike in this regard," _says Sarek, and Spock notes something akin to pride in his voice.

"Shut up, you two," says Mother. "Did you or did you not appreciate the performance?"

Both Sarek and Spock answer in the affirmative.

"Then clap. It isn't rocket science. I swear, you two are so deliberately obtuse sometimes."

There are cocktails and hors d'oeuvres following the performance, and Spock indulges in a spinach and goat cheese tart, a glass of red wine. Mother, as usual, charms everyone. Sarek stands stiffly next to her as she tells a joke to the Admiral of the Fleet, a crowd laughing raucously around her.

Spock overhears several conversations, none of them particularly exciting, but he knows it would be impolitic to leave now. Further, he does not wish to depart before commending Ms. Uhura on a 'job well-done'.

"_You look very, very uninterested," _says someone in Vulcan, a voice Spock does not recognise.

"_It is my life's endeavour to look as uninterested as possible at all times," _he says, then turns toward the voice, startled to see a human there, none other than Nyota Uhura herself. He'd thought the speaker _Vulkhansu_ based on the accuracy of the accent.

"_Well, you are succeeding magnificently_." She smiles cunningly, her hair pulled up into an elaborate updo, a few curls hanging over her cheeks in dainty coils.

"_Am I?" _

"_Indeed," _she says. The darkness of her irises is accentuated by a line of coal-black pencil smeared beneath and above her eyes, drawn to a catlike point. It is quite striking. For someone so young, twenty-two years old according to the biography in the programme, she has a distinctly womanly ere.

"_I must say, I am surprised that you deem my attempts at indifference successful, as I suddenly find myself having difficulty in that regard,_" says Spock.

"_Difficulty in what regard?_" she asks, again with that coy smile.

"_Difficulty looking uninterested." _He stares at her fixedly, and her face flushes pink.

"Wow, a Vulcan with game. Definitely did not see that coming," she says. He guesses that she's switched to Standard because it would be impossible to express a similar sentiment in Vulkhansu.

"I am simply stating facts, Ms. Uhura," says Spock. "And since I am stating facts, let me take a moment to inform you I found your performance immensely satisfactory."

"I am honoured that you think so, Commander Spock," she says, and before he can react to her suddenly knowing both his name and rank, Captain Christopher Pikes joins them. He kisses the back of Nyota's hand, tells her that she looks stunning, and if she's as successful at playing a communications board as she is a violin, they'll be awarding her the Medal of Valour in no time.

"So, Spock, what do you think of our newest recruit?" Pike says.

"Excuse me, Captain?"

"This lovely young woman has just enrolled at the Academy. That _is_ why we're here. Meet Cadet Uhura, xenolinguistics major, on the Communications track."

"How do you do, Commander," she says still beaming. "I'm sorry I didn't announce myself sooner. I thought you knew. Captain Pike here was the one who talked me into doing this concert. Said it was good for Star Fleet's image or something, fighting the stereotypes about rampant militarism." She shrugs, and only she could make such a banal human gesture look exceedingly elegant.

"I am pleased to meet you, Cadet. Xenolinguistics will suit you well. Your Vulcan is impeccable. May I inquire as to how you gained such fluency?"

"Years of dedicated study, she says, though I have to admit an advantage. My mother is a diplomat, and I spent much of my childhood travelling the galaxy. I've been speaking Vulcan since I was five or six."

"Indeed."

"Vulcan is one of thirty-one languages the cadet speaks fluently," Pike chimes in.

"Impressive," says Spock. "I have little doubt that you will be an asset to Star Fleet."

"Thank you, Commander. I hope I get to work with you at some point, though I know it's unlikely. I've read everything you've published on subspace communication. Your insights are always original and exciting. Your paper about locating humanoid-inhabited planets by applying the Teslyck-Hymes principle to radio-waves was really cool." Her praise is hugely gratifying.

"Baby, you're gushing," a woman says, with striking resemblance to Uhura. The cadet blushes.

"Sorry, Sir," she says, looking at him with what Spock recognises to be a bashful expression. "It's just, you're kind of one of the reasons I wanted to get into this field in the first place. I never thought I'd excel in the sciences, it just wasn't my thing, but you showed me that communication engineering is an art, or at the very least, a creative act. That allowed me to access it for the first time." Nyota Uhura is speaks with grace and passion, and Spock is reminded of the way she played violin, that balance of power and restraint.

"Don't let her get you wrong. My daughter _does _excel at science, but as you probably saw tonight, music is her gift. And forgive her rudeness. I am her mother, Naomi."

"I am Commander Spock. I am pleased to make your acquaintance Naomi."

As people recognise Uhura as the musician, they crowd around her, offering praise, most of them doing so much more effusively than Spock had. He hopes she'd understood how much he respected and valued her performance.

Several minutes later, someone clinks a glass. Everyone turns to see—a _Romulan_? A man with olive skin, shaved head, and the characteristic tattoo markings on his face dings his spoon against a glass of amber liquid, pointed ears, unswept eyebrows. Romulans are virtually unheard of in Federation space, especially on Earth. "Nyota, join me," he says gruffly, his eyes playful.

The cadet smiles apologetically at her admirers and joins the Romulan, kissing him on the cheek before she takes a place at his side. He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her flush against his body, his bare hand on her upper harm, is hip to her hip. It is, for some reason, an unpleasant sight.

Once he has the attention of the room, the Romulan begins his toast, his accent clear but harsh, each word tinged with gravelly force. "My name is Hadif, and it is my great honour to introduce you all to the lovely, beautiful, clever, and fierce Nyota Uhura, my student, protégé, and friend."

The audience watches Hadif politely, and Spock suspects the intoxicating effects of wine has something to do with their calm.

"I have worked with her for the better part of fifteen years now," says Hadif, "and in that time, I've gotten to know a musician who is not only dedicated and industrious, who approaches each song with violent, warlike fervour, but a woman whose talents extend beyond the violin. She told me, several months ago, her intentions to join Star Fleet. She did so in my native tongue—I expect to soften the blow. But Nyota was wrong to think it was joining Star Fleet that would upset me—although I cannot I am thrilled. Admiral, please do not arrest me for saying that." A murmur of laughter fills the room, but Spock finds himself very unamused.

"What upsets me is that she will be leaving me. Nyota is a gem among gems. On Romulus, we call such females a word that can loosely be translated to _shieldmaidens_, or _Valkyrie, _a woman who fights alongside the men, with a ferocity unmatched by even the gods themselves. Although I will be losing my most prized student, Star Fleet is gaining an excellent soldier. To Nyota," Hadif says, finishing, holding up his glass.

"To Nyota," says Spock. Oddly, her name feels like a swear word on his lips, lovely, but forbidden.

"No wonder she plays with such passion with a goddamn Romulan as her teacher," says Pike beside him.

"It would explain a lot," Amanda agrees. "I wonder why he's here? How they even met?"

"It is most curious," says Sarek. "_They seem overly affectionate toward one another. Are they bonded?_" he adds in Vulcan.

"_To you, saying 'hello' is overly affectionate. Really dear, I think they're just friends, as Hadif said_."

Spock feels something, an emotion he cannot identify, when he sees Hadif drag a finger along Cadet Uhura's cheek. He reasons that it is his Vulcan modesty, scandalised by the sight of such intimate displays. It is improper and inappropriate.

Yes, that's what the emotion is, minor shock at a breech in decorum. This is a public space, after all.

#

Nyota flops onto the mattress, stretches, then collapses backward onto the pillow. The first day of orientation had been absolutely exhausting. She prized herself on her physical fitness, her endurance, but traipsing the huge campus over a period of ten hours had proved to be her limit.

"I feel like a warp 4 capable ship forced to travel at warp 8. Kill me now," says Gaila.

"I know, right? My feet seriously hate me right now. They're all like, 'Nyota! We hate you! We're resigning our post!'"

"Good riddance," says Gaila.

Nyota smiles at her roommate's use of the colloquialism.

"Did I say that right?" she asks, twirling a strand of red hair in her finger.

"Yeah, well enough," says Nyota, then toes off her boots and socks, rolls her feet around her ankles, stretching them.

They'd received their roommate assignments earlier this year and had used each other's contact information to video chat. They spent much of the time teaching each other idioms, expressions, swear words, insults.

"Ugh, you know what I need right now?" says Nyota

"To get laid?" Gaila says. "You do look stiff. I'd offer my assistance, but my advisor said it was a good idea to set boundaries or something? I don't know why. But it's what she said."

Rolling her eyes, Nyota removes her uniform skirt and jacket until she's in nothing but her underwear. "I'd actually just settle for a foot rub. I need a manservant."

"Ooh, a manservant. That does sound exciting. I totally didn't have you pegged for a dom, kind of figured you to be controlling in the streets, submissive in the sheets. But I can see the dominant side, too. "

"I am seriously disturbed you've spent enough time thinking about my sex life to have a theory about my personality in the sheets."

"You should be flattered," says Gaila.

They continue in amicable banter as each finish setting up their sides of the room. Neither has had much time to pack with the schedule of activities.

Nyota tacks pictures onto a board, sets up a few potted plants, makes up her bed with a patchwork quilt her nan had made her. She's about to declare herself done when Gaila walks up one of the pictures from the board.

"Ny, you didn't tell me you had a boyyyyyyfriend," she says. "And a hunky one at that. He's really handsome."

"I don't have a _boyyyyyfriend_," Nyota replies, and snatches the picture back, returning it to its rightful place. "That's Hadif. My friend and teacher. I've known him since I was a kid. He's like a brother to me. The one who inspired me to take up violin."

"Uh huh," says Gaila. "And also your boyyyyyfriend."

Nyota laughs despite herself. "Could you stop saying it like that? You sound like you're ten years old. And I mean it, friends only."

"Do Romulans even have friends?"

"Yes. And that's all we are."

"Ny?" asks Gaila.

"What?"

"Um, why is there a picture of you and Commander Spock up here?"

"I had my mum take it a few months ago, at one of my concerts. I couldn't resist asking Ambassador Sarek to have a photo with me, and Amanda Grayson and Spock joined in. Why?" Again, Nyota snatches the pictures back from Nyota so she can put them up. She yawns. Two more days of orientation. By the time her classes start, she's going to be burnt out already.

"I don't know. It just seems weird. So is he your boyyyyyfriend?"

Smiling, Nyota removes her hair from its ponytail, shakes it loose, rubs her fingers through her scalp. "Spock? My boyfriend? Ha. Ha. I'm actually pretty sure I completely embarrassed myself in front of him. I acted like a silly, gushing, flirty fool. It was awful."

Remembering their exchange is slightly humiliating. Did she really tell a Vulcan that he had game? Jesus, Ny.

"Flirty? So you mean, you tried to flirt with him?" Gaila asks.

"Leave it to you to put words in my mouth. That's not what I said and you know it."

"Uh huh. Sure," says Gaila, then breaks into song, "Spock and Nyota sitting in a bush!"

"It's a _tree," _says Nyota.

"Spock and Nyota sitting in a _tree_. F-L-I-R-T-I-N-G."

"That doesn't even work, like, at all," says Nyota. "I'm hopping in the shower. You better be done with that stupid song by the time I'm out, or I will be forced to unleash the Kraken."

"Sounds hot," says Gaila.

#

It is not until the end of the first semester that Spock sees her again, at a Christmas party (in name, it is actually a 'winter holiday' party, but as a Vulcan, Spock is adept at deciphering euphemism). The attendees are professors, TAs, and a few students.

Everything about it is unpleasant, as expected, the noise, the food (no love lost between Spock and fruitcake). The company is not awful, but as usual, he colleagues try to engage him in overly familiar conversation. He does not wish to tell them about his relationships, his childhood, his life before the Academy, his convictions, his spiritual beliefs or lack thereof, his philosophical stances, his political affiliations, his opinion on this and that violent conflict, food shortage, civil war. Spock has been forced to attend these events for years. Each year, they grow seemingly worse.

"_Ah, now you are definitely looking uninterested._"

"Cadet," answers Spock, this time immediately recognising it is her. He looks up from his cup of eggnog, a drink he's not too keen on—but he'd needed to escape an invasive conversation, and he noticed that when others were in similar situations, they excused themselves to get a beverage. "I did not realise you were in attendance," he say.

"Disappointed?" Uhura says.

"Not in the least," says Spock, taking in her outfit, a form-fitted burgundy dress that stops mid thighs. This time, at least, there are sleeves.. He realises that by talking to him she is merely being polite. Humans are often under the mistaken impression that when they see him standing alone in a corner, he wishes for company. In actuality, that is rarely the case.

"I bet you're wishing I'd go away, aren't you?" she says. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I know you probably hate these sort of things. I kind of do, too, for what it's worth. Anyway, I just thought it'd be rude not to say hi. So hi. Now good bye."

Before Spock can protest, she nods her head politely and leaves, joining the crowd of mingling attendees.

"What'd you to scare that one off?" says Lieutenant Marcus, a fellow professor in the engineering department. "I got the distinct impression that she was fleeing."

"I do not know," Spock says. "I seem to have a habit of causing offence when my intention is to do the exact opposite."

Lieutenant Marcus nods, places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder before removing it. "Maybe I can help," says Marcus, her frown transforming into a mischievous grin. "Oy, Uhura, over here!"

Spock believes the feeling he is currently experiencing is mortification.

"Professor Marcus, hi!" says Nyota. She is exuberant in her affection, giving the lieutenant a hug. "I had no idea you were coming to this."

"We'll see how long I last. I don't get on well at parties. One minute, someone asks me how my semester went, the next, I'm providing them deep analysis of dilithium reaction models, why they're the perfect element for stabilising warp cores as a result of their crystalline molecular structure, and then suddenly realise I am standing alone, talking to myself."

"It sounds like an intriguing topic of conversation to me," says Spock.

Both Marcus and Uhura laugh, though he cannot fathom why. He also cannot fathom why his reaction to Uhura's smile is so, for lack of a better word, dramatic. He feels his muscles seize into tight lines.

"Isn't Commander Spock charming, Nyota?" asks Marcus.

Uhura doesn't answer, just bows her head slightly and takes a sip of her punch.

"Speaking of, I was disappointed I didn't run into you at all this semester. Maybe we could figure out a time to grab lunch?" Uhura says. "I've had lunch with all my professors," she adds on hastily. "Carol and I have a standing Saturday coffee date. I mean, I understand if you're very busy. I'm busy, too. We're all busy. Life is busy." Lt. Marcus reaches out and puts a hand over Uhura's wrist, and she stops speaking abruptly.

"What the cadet means is, it's perfectly acceptable for two colleagues with similar interests to catch up every once in a while."

And so they do. Indeed, Spock is busy, but he arranges to join Uhura in the mess hall one Wednesday afternoon following Winter Leave. Instead of the usual cafeteria fare, she's packed something for the both of them. "I hope you don't mind. I hate most of the food they serve here. Gaila and I both take serious advantage of our dormitory's kitchenette."

"It is agreeable," says Spock. The scent of the food she's prepared is appetising. As she unpacks the glass containers, he notes some sort of soup, a fried bread, and vegetables.

"Okay, so we've got plantain and yam bisque, and this is _gomen, _kale with ginger, carrots, and onion, although I cheated and used swiss chard, and beignets, though they're not sweetened. However, if you find yourself craving something sweet, I made a cardamom-ginger maple syrup to pour over them.

"A veritable feast. I appreciate your effort, Cadet."

"Oh, it's no effort. I love to cook when I get the chance," she says.

It is the most satisfying meal he's had in 7.1 years, save for his mother's matzoh ball soup, which he has an illogical fondness for.

"Are you managing to find time to play violin?" Spock asks, genuinely curious.

"Barely," she says. "I get very antagonising vid calls from Hadif weekly." Then Nyota does what Spock imagines to be her impression of a Romulan. It is somewhat amusing. "_Nyota! I will not have my best student ruined by the mediocrity that is Star Fleet! You must practise! Daily! Or die!_" Spock notes that her Romulan is as advanced as her Vulcan. Fascinating.

"He does not sound like a man to upset," Spock offers.

"It's actually his way of being sweet. I got to see him over the break, which was nice, really nice. I didn't realise how much I missed having someone yell _you're way too goddamn sharp, Nyota! _at me. _And fix that terrifyingly bad bow hand! You shame the Empire with your playing!_"

"You consider yourself to have strong emotional ties to Hadif?" he asks.

"Well, of course," she says, her smile faltering somewhat. "Very strong emotional ties."

So it was as Sarek suspected that night at the concert. The two of them were bonded, or at least in an intimate relationship. There is no reason this news should aggravate him, and yet.

#

He—accidentally, of course—memorises her workout schedule. There were enough mornings where they overlapped, and he simply caught on to her rhythms.

When it's raining, like today, she runs at the indoor track, five kilometres. This early in the morning, the gym is deserted.

Spock's doing weights, bench pressing two hundred and thirty kilograms as she jogs. She's listening to the second half of Tchaikovsky's 1812 on her music player, and Spock enjoys the piece second-hand. He knows that when she's finished with her run, she'll do another thirty minutes on the stationary bike, at a slow, leisurely place.

"Good morning, Commander," she says, when she sees him. Her jog finished five minutes ago, after which she completed a cool-down lap.

"Cadet," says Spock, nodding his head, letting the barbell fall back into its place. Next, he attempts small talk. "What will you be reading today?"

"Hm?" she asks. Nyota stretches her arms across her chest. Her top garment adheres to her torso, her breasts apparent.

"Maybe I am mistaken. I was under the impression you enjoy a book during your time on the stationary bicycle." Spock knows that this is true, as he's witnessed the behaviour most mornings she spends on the machine.

Her brow crinkles, then she smiles. "I forget how observant you are," she says, then takes a seat next to him on the bench. Her skin glistens with sweat. A messy bun sits on top her head, a few curls of hair escaping the confines of the elastic.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Nyota asks, even though she's already sitting next to him, rather closely. "I'm a little more winded today than usual." She pulls a PADD from her bag, clicks on the screen. "And here's what I'm going to read. It's pretty trashy. Don't judge me."

"You are a diligent student, Cadet. You are entitled to entertainment for entertainment's sake. I would not begrudge you that." The book appears to be a work in the genre of historical fiction, emphasis on the fiction rather than the historical.

"But isn't entertainment for entertainment's sake illogical?" she says. Her smile hints that she's teasing, an activity with which Spock has gained only minor success. Still, he gives it, as they say, the old college try.

He turns to her, drags his gaze over the details of her face, the delicate plumpness of her lips and the darkness of her eyes. "I assure you, reading a book whilst engaged in physical conditioning barely registers as illogical when measured against the behaviours of which your species is capable. For a human you are quite logical."

At that, she stands, her hands on her hips, tiny grin still in place. "Oh, trust me, I'm as prone to bouts of illogic as my human brethren. Besides, logic is ridiculous. And boring. I have no interest in it. I will read _all _the bad fiction, and like it. So there." She sticks out her tongue in a childish gesture, then laughs warmly.

"I did not guess you to be a romantic," says Spock.

"And what _did _you guess me for?" she asks.

He doesn't know what to say to that, and thus raises a solitary eyebrow. "Enjoy your book, Cadet. I must depart."

Spock cannot read faces with much precision, but he knows that the expression flitting across Nyota's face is one of hurt. Had his dismissal been too abrupt?

Then again, maybe this is what's required of him, to create some distance.

**A/N: I posit that the Narada's attack on the Kelvin might make Romulans slightly less of a mystery to the Federation, and their general appearance would be known (despite what we see in TOS). I hope you like it. Please tell me what you think : )**


	3. Desperado

** Warnings for drug use in this chapter. **

* * *

**III. **

**Desperado**

My darling son,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good health.

As for me? I am surviving. Physical therapy continues to be taxing, made all the worse for your Samekh's hovering. He argues that it is only logical he be present to offer support, but now that I am out of the woods, there is no real reason for his constant attention. I suspect he does it because he thinks i like it, but admittedly, I've found myself craving a little space, both physically and emotionally.

Do not get me wrong. There is little that brings me more gladness than his steadfast attendance. My family is my life. He is my life. You are my life. (Sorry, I promise to refrain from such sentimental statements throughout the remainder of this missive.) Still, I am feeling—a need for solitude. I expect you're familiar with this desire? Nothing is as it should be, and no matter how much we rebuild, there are some holes that will remain forever thus.

At this point, I am quite certain you are not reading my messages. But I keep writing because my therapist advises it. Yes, I am seeing a therapist. I want to feel like myself again, but part of me was lost with Vulcan. Knowing you are my son helps, that I bore you in this body, however tattered it may be now. I am me. I know this. Our cells die and regenerate everyday, and I tell myself that any medical intervention I received is no different.

The High Council has made an inquiry into your father's actions. They find his choices "questionable", which is their version of being absolutely livid at him. Researchers are scandalized, yet madly curious. The idea that humans have katras—indeed, it is exciting.

I miss you. I cannot feel you in my mind, and some days I fear that you are dead. Only faith keeps me hoping, hoping, hoping. When you did not respond to Nyota's crisis, I assumed the worst. You are on a journey, I know.

Saint Monica prayed and cried daily for her wayward son, and it is the Church's belief that her laments to God played a crucial part in Saint Augustine of Hippo's return to the faith. I am not Catholic, but her story still fascinates me. I have to remind myself you are young, so young, just a child, really. I am forever here for you. You are always forgiven. There is nothing you could do to make me not love you. If it is fear that keeps you from us, just know that we are waiting with open arms, sans judgment.

Regarding Nyota and the ordeal—I grieve with thee. She is staying with us for a while, recovering. I had thought, if nothing else, her news would bring you back to us. But trust me. I know it's not always as easy as that. We like to think we'll always be the people we want to be. But it's hard. We get so caught up in our own shit. From the moment I lay eyes on you, I loved you so much, but I know you must remember the times I was not the fierce protectress you deserved and needed. Or when Vulcan became too much for me to bear and I abandoned you and your father for my other home, on Earth, for months at a time. I am sorry, always.

Nyota is doing all right. Her spirits are back up after the _pi-gel-pak_. How are you handling it all? She's thrown herself into work—some new project that she's very hush-hush about. I worry about her, of course. She's become like a daughter to me. Hanif visited last month, and I think that helped to pull her out of her funk. I've grown fond of him, but things are quite tense, given he's Romulan. And now with talk of war…New Vulcan is still in such infancy. Even with the help of the Federation, I doubt we could survive violent conflict with Romulus.

It has been one Standard year exactly since Vulcan was ripped from us. Beautiful love of my life, come back to us. For I feel your absence even more keenly than that of the planet I came to think of as home.

With all the love I have to give,

Komekh

#

#

#

Spock hesitates, cursor above the delete button, as he reads the most recent letter from his mother.

He's not sure what it is that made him open this message, when he's deleted all the others on-sight.

"Hurry up. The others await us," says T'Sith. Her wavy black hair hangs down to her hips, without cover, completely unbound by braid or bun. No such impropriety would be allowed on Vulcan—but then, that is the point, Spock supposes. She wears heavy makeup, eyes painted into a grey, smoky cloud. Several piercings dot her tall, pointed ears. "What are you doing?" she asks, leaning over him, pressing kisses against his neck, nibbling.

He can feel her mind through the light touch, a fog of so much pain—and he thinks, he has no right to feel grief at all. His family, though greatly reduced in number, survived. And his Nyota, his precious Nyota, still lives. T'Sith had lost her mother, father, bonded, and young daughter.

"It is nothing," says Spock, erasing the message and clicking away from the screen on his PADD. "Let us depart."

They descend the stairs together, meeting Torvas and Suneh in their shared living room. The two men are bonded, but only recently so, each losing their first mates with Va'Pak. They'd come together in their grief despite the wishes of their parents. They stand close, fingers touching, looking every bit the epitome of _tash-tor_. Torvas's tightly curled hair is cropped closely to his scalp, and Suneh's fringe lays in a neat row several centimetres above his forehead. Dark robes over black trousers. No one would guess that they had fled New Vulcan together. There is no Vulkhansu word for elope because it simply does not happen, not until these two.

As the group of four walk the streets of Zaprah Aikum, Spock finally asks, "Are any of you familiar with the term _pi-gel-pak_?"

Generally, Spock would seek out electronic resources to research, but he suspects it's a rather old term, given its clear metaphorical meaning. His komekh's study of Ancient Vulcan poetry has given her an extensive idiomatic handle on Vulkhansu that Spock, and ironically, most Vulcans, lack. She tends to rely on those old Golic phrases when speaking on emotional matters.

T'Sith says, "Loss of a seedling or young shooting plant?"

"Yes, I am aware of the literal meaning. I thought there might be a deeper meaning I was unaware of," Spock clarifies. "It was likely used in pre-Surak language."

They pass Vulcans of varying levels of intoxication on the streets—which is to say, some of them merely smirk, others smile more earnestly. It resembles nothing of what Spock had experienced of drunkeness from other species. He should feel at peace here, among Vulcans who accept him despite his bi-species heritage. But when he looks into the lit desert, beyond the main square, he thinks only that this tiny planet is too red, too teaming with life, too not-Vulcan.

Loud music from several clubs make the pavement throb and hum. T'Sith presses toward him. "I will find out for you. It is a most curious phrase," she says, because she is a scholar at heart. She'd been at a facility near the Neutral Zone conducting research, so she could complete her dissertation on ancient war epics. Her love for literature survived Va'Pak, at least.

The club they end up at is a mix of Vulcans and off-worlders. Some human. The settlement, founded by a vulcan named K'Ter, is meant as a haven for Vulcans, but there is a general culture of openness on Zaprah Aikum. Pacifist Klingons. Gentle Romulans.

It does not take him long to 'pick his poison.' A Vulcan woman about his age with dark brown eyes and skin. Thin, short. She has a provincial accent, mixed with Golic, and it's a pleasing contrast. Her stony face is beautiful, though it does not rival that of his ashalik—who has by now moved on, which is as he'd wished it.

"Come," she says, when they make eye contact. They weave through the crowd at the club, stopping once they reach the toilet. "Here," says the woman, and hands him a tiny baggy. "You are in pain. Is it not logical to relieve it?"

"I am not particularly logical of late," says Spock. "Nor are any of us."

"Then do it becomes it feels good."

She shows him how, sprinkling the fine powder onto the meaty part of skin between her index finger and thumb, inhales deeply with her nose. Following her example, Spock snorts his first line of opiate.

They fuck. It is not gentle and she cries and he touches her mind with his so he can share the burden of her loss. She calls him _nirsh'ulef_. It means 'not-half.' Because it's what he wants to hear. She can see into his mind, after all, and knows that in being half Vulcan and half Human, he is neither, and therefore nothing. And what right has he to grieve a loss that technically does not belong to him? _Nirsh'ulef_, she repeats.

But all he can think is _that is a lie_. Without his aduna'a, he is only half.

* * *

**I am sorry for the wait. I'm at a loss with this fic because it's perhaps too close. Personal life is a bit out of sorts. Disabilities have made it difficult to generate as quickly as I'd like. I've also had second thoughts about the order I've posted things. But the nature of a WIP is that everything is sort of set in stone, with no real chance to edit once you publish. Thanks for your support. I truly do cherish all your words, and I'm so sorry I don't always answer. I always meant to, then-life. Please let me know if the order of things gets confusing. This is just not a story that makes sense to tell chronologically. Finally, I know this isn't really the typical fic. So thank you to those giving it a chance despite the weirdness. Your comments are cherished.**


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